


This is Us

by PoorMedea



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Pining, the girls are incidental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoorMedea/pseuds/PoorMedea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Louis and Harry are exactly who they always say they are in interviews.  Except not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Us

It’s late—or early—and Louis lies awake in the dark, blinking up at the ceiling and straining to make out the faint noises drifting through the flat. Harry has a girl over. 

Harry always has a girl over, except when he doesn’t come home, struggling in the next morning with a grin on his face and a beanie pulled firmly down on his head, hiding the disarray of his mussed hair. 

The low murmur of voices is still in the lounge, although Harry rarely fucks them there, always the considerate flatmate. 

Louis turns instinctively towards the door, his eyes seeking out the sliver of light that radiates in from where they are. Harry and some girl. 

It’s not always ‘some girl.’ Some of them stick around for awhile, or repeat when Louis least expects it. They all love Harry, don’t mind that he’s not interested in settling down, that he only calls once a month, that their faces end up in the paper, or on twitter, or that teen girls around the world hate them.

From the sounds that often fill the flat, it seems Harry makes it worth their while.

The moaning is starting now, quick, feminine, gasping breaths, laid over the quiet shuffling of feel as Harry leads the girl to the room next to Louis’. 

The shared wall of their bedrooms was something Louis hadn’t even thought about until their second night in the flat, when Harry went out for a drink and came back with a fan, pressing her up against the joining wall, waking Louis with the thump of her head on the plaster, the cadence of her gasps, the scratch of the bed against the floor as Harry rocked into her.

The door to Harry’s room swings shut and Louis can hear them better now, the murmurs as they whisper to each other, the sound of their feet carrying them across the room. Harry groans once, long and low, and Louis wonders what’s happening.

Has she dropped to her knees in front of him, pushing his legs apart and sliding between them, pressing the wet heat of her mouth over him?

He pictures Harry’s hands tangling in her hair—long or short, blond or brunette, it doesn’t matter. It’s Harry’s large hands that he sees, those familiar digits that have poked and teased at Louis’ body, curving around the back of her head, dragging her down, pressing her close. The way Harry’s head would tip back, eyes slipping shut, tongue darting out to lap at his lips, the way Louis’ seen him do a million times. But not the same at all.

Louis shifts uncomfortably in bed, knowing he’s hard. The girl is moaning again, and Louis thinks about Harry pushing her back on the bed, sliding between her spread thighs, pushing into the soft heat of her.

He lets a hand drift under the covers, curling around himself, and tries to think about El, think about spreading her long, tan legs, the tangle of her dark hair against the pillow, the firm swell of her breasts, rising and falling with her pants. He tries to think about sliding into her as he’s done hundreds of times, the feel of her, slick and hot around him.

Instead, he strains to hear the thump of a headboard against the wall, sees the rise and fall of Harry’s back in his mind, cresting over the body of the nameless, faceless girl in his room.

He’s never walked in on Harry fucking, but sometimes he thinks about it. Thinks about pushing the door open like he hasn’t heard them, like he doesn’t know they’re there, and finally seeing exactly what Harry looks like, rocking over a woman, spread beneath one as she bounces on top of him, pressing her against the wall, the door, taking her on top of the dresser, in front of a mirror.

Seeing his hands curled around soft creamy thighs, seeing the red of his lips as he thrusts and thrusts, the way his hips would jerk and sway.

Louis’ hand tightens around himself. He could get up and walk in right now, pretend he was looking for any one of his possessions that scatter Harry’s bedroom floor, their wardrobe as shared as their lives.

He could walk in, and Harry would look up in surprise, his big, liquid eyes wide, his lips falling open, pink and wet, his hair damp and plastered to his forehead. He would look up and meet Lou’s eyes and his hips would snap, pressing the thick, red length of him deeper inside her.

And Louis could finally _see_ what he’s been hearing night after night for the last two years.

Instead he closes his eyes and forces El’s face to the front of his mind, stroking himself harder as the pounding of the headboard against the wall crescendos in the next room.


End file.
